


An Impossible Task

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Angst, Beta Lestrade, Consensual, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Heavy Angst, Loss of Trust, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Content, Trust Issues, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back from the dead. While he goes through withdrawal of the heat suppressants he took during his three years underground, John watches at an emotional distance. While he knows he still loves Sherlock, he's uncertain if he can ever trust his former mate again, if they can be lovers once more, or if the damage is permanent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **EDIT:** The original story/chapter 1 can be (IMO) standalone. It is, however, unresolved angst. If you want resolution (and smut), by all means read all four chapters. You're lucky this is fanfic, because if it was OF I'd have left it just the first chapter.
> 
> (Now with background Mystrade and Mollene!)
> 
>  ~~***UNRESOLVED ANGST***~~ GETTING RESOLVED. DEMAND AND SUPPLY I GUESS.
> 
> THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FLUFF??? I was going to write a bathroom/bathtub scene that was post Reichenbach but then I wanted to write omegaverse in that setting so I did both and I thought it would be fluff but WELP THAT DIDN'T WORK OUT.
> 
> Unedited because I need to sleep.

John had seen enough heat suppressant withdrawals to at least have an idea of what Sherlock was going through. It didn’t help that the man went cold turkey instead of titrating.

“It’s the only way,” he told John when he caught his former alpha watching with a creased brow. “For me, it’s the only way I’ll be successful. I’ve gone through enough withdrawals to know.” Then he continued on his way back to his bedroom where he was no doubt huddled in feverish sweats.

John knew he should help, wanted to help, but he still hadn’t forgiven Sherlock. For St. Bart’s, for the last three years. Part of him said, _Let him suffer this. Maybe he’ll understand what I went through._ But he knew, somewhere in his mind, in the logical bit, that Sherlock had to have suffered just as much from the separation.

After going twelve hours without seeing or hearing from Sherlock, though, John put away his anger and pride in favour of concern and, if he had been willing to admit it to himself, the love he still had for Sherlock, the love he had clung to for three years.

Sherlock was shivering on top of his duvet, stripped to his pants which had been pulled halfway down his hips before being abandoned. John pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock’s brow and retracted it with a hiss.

“We need to get your body temperature down,” he said with a clinical tone that made his stomach knot.

“F-fine,” Sherlock muttered, teeth chattering.

“Of course you are.” John left him long enough to start the bath. When he returned, he found Sherlock had not moved, and he couldn’t be sure if it was from stubbornness or inability.

He carefully stripped off the last article of clothing and rolled up his sleeves before scooping Sherlock into his arms. The man struggled and muttered his objections, but he was hardly in fighting form. John lowered him slowly into the cold bath.

“Don’t leave this tub,” he ordered in his best captain’s voice.

He fetched what ice there was in the freezer and dumped into the tub. Then he went downstairs and cleared Mrs. Hudson out of ice as well.

John sat with Sherlock while the ice bath did its job, checking his forehead at regular intervals. When he was satisfied the fever had dropped below a dangerous level, after most of the ice had melted, he pulled the plug and helped Sherlock out of the tub. John used his own bathrobe as Sherlock had yet to purchase a new one in the few weeks he’d been back. He gathered up every clean towel and assisted a shaky Sherlock back to bed, where he wrapped him head to toe in towels.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock rasped, his voice broken and barely audible.

He’d said those words a lot lately. They were the first words out of his mouth before John chinned him. At first, John’s response had been along the lines of “That’s not good enough.” After a week, they shifted into “So you’ve said.”

He combed Sherlock’s sweat damped curls from his brow. “I know.”

Sherlock wriggled a hand free of the towel cocoon and grasped John’s wrist. It scared John to feel how weak those fingers were. Sherlock’s eyes were shut tight. “I won’t hold it against you if you want me to move out. If you never want to see me again. I’ll stay away from you. If it allows you find someone else, if it allows you to be happy, I’ll do it. Just say so, and I’m gone. Clear across London.”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock’s lips quivered closed.

“I hate it when you start blubbering sentiment. It doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t feel right. It’s not you.”

“But I mean it sincerely, J-”

“I said, shut up.” John leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s, closing his eyes. “You were the only one who could make me happy, and you damn well know it.” He lowered his head to Sherlock’s neck and inhaled deeply. He’d wanted to do that for a long time. Sherlock arched slightly beneath him, pressing into him. “If it hadn’t been for your scent, I’d have sworn you were an alpha. At least a beta. I’d never met an omega who was such a prick.”

“So you’ve said on several occasions.”

“You’re still not shutting up,” John growled. Then he relaxed his jaw, moved to the other side of Sherlock’s neck, inhaled. His scent was still faint and still polluted with the remnants of the heat suppressants, but it was still very much there. Sherlock was very much there. “All my mates said I was mad, that bedding you, I might as well try bedding another alpha. But I realised, that’s what I wanted. I didn’t want someone who was going to just roll over for me, heat or no heat. I wanted someone who was going to fight me every step of the way. Seems pretty stupid, I know.” He leaned back enough to take in Sherlock’s face, the curious expression, the silver eyes that hadn’t quite escaped the drugged haze. “Because I wanted to know, one-hundred percent, no second guesses, that when it finally came down to it, it was right. That oestrus had no part to play in the ‘if.’ That when you said yes, we were both clear-headed about it.” He brushed the back of his fingertips down one ashen cheek. “You fucked us up, Sherlock.” He pressed his fingers against Sherlock’s lips before the apologies and excuses could escape. “I understand why, but that doesn’t change the fact that you fucked us up.” He pulled away and sat up. “So now we have to start over. You’re going to get through this withdrawal, and I’ll help you, I’ll take care of you while you do. But then we start over. And you’re not going to apologise or make excuses or beg. You’re going to be Sherlock Holmes, the world’s biggest prick. You’re going to drive me up the wall and fight me over the most ridiculous things like leaving cultures in the sink and body parts in the fridge. And we’re going to figure this out all over again because, when you say yes, I want you to be the same man who said yes to me four years ago. Not some guilt-ridden, whacked-out hormonal sop. Got it?”

Sherlock gave a small shake. “I can’t do that, John.”

John scowled, anger bubbling up with renewed vigour. “And why the hell not?”

“Because I had barely started loving you then, and to start over would mean to stop loving you now. If there is one thing I am certain of after spending three years away from you, it is that to stop loving you would be an impossible task.”

John closed his eyes and swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I said to stop spluttering all this sentimental bullshit. It’s usually my job, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it was, John.” Sherlock smiled. It was a gaunt expression on his hollow face. “But I believe the last three years has made a lasting impression on us both. I’m sure, once I’m through withdrawal, I will be as insufferable as ever. For the time being, however-”

“You’re still insufferable.” John allowed himself a little smirk. “You’re just an insufferable sentimentalist instead of an insufferable know-it-all.”

“So be it. We can try it your way, if you like, but I will never not say yes. I will never stop saying yes. You have changed me irreparably, John. No amount of separation, physical or emotional, can ever change that.”

John took a deep breath and nodded. “Then maybe this time it’s me who has to say yes.”

Sherlock’s expression fell.

John had never seen him looking so broken, save for the first moments of their reunion. He didn’t take back his words, though.

“So perhaps as I have become a little more sentimental, you’ve grown less?”

“Maybe.” John stood and walked to the door. “Watching your lover and mate jump off a five-story building, only to find out three years later that his suicide was faked, can have that affect.” He straightened his posture and rolled his shoulders back “Don’t go to sleep yet. You need to drink some water first.”

Sherlock rolled onto his side, back to the door. “Yes, doctor,” he muttered.

John closed the door and walked through the kitchen before collapsing into his chair. His hands were shaking and he felt sick. He wanted to run back to Sherlock’s room—what should have been their room—and say yes. He wanted to gather Sherlock in his arms and never stop saying yes. But something inside was stopping him.

He wasn’t ready to forgive Sherlock, and part of him was terrified that he might never be able to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE SEQUEL ENDED UP BEING SO LONG I AM JUST GONNA ADD ON AS TWO CHAPTERS OKAY THANKS LAST ONE COMING SOON

The roof door opened and shut. John didn’t need Sherlock’s gift of deduction to know who the light footsteps belonged to. Molly nudged a paper cup into his hands.

“Thanks,” John murmured and set it down on the concrete ledge.

“How can you stand to be up here?” She gave a little shiver as she joined John’s people-watching, though she did not join him in sitting.

John shrugged. “Catharsis?”

“Hmph.”

“Disagree?” He turned away from London and gave her a sour smile.

She met his gaze levelly. “One might call it self-destructive.”

“Is that one you or Irene?”

Molly bristled and squinted at John. “You really are starting to sound more like him.”

He just gave her another shrug and looked back at the streets below St. Bart’s.

“Where is he anyway?”

“His mum’s.”

“He was just there two months ago.”

“It’s the withdrawal.” John finally picked up his coffee and stood. “It’ll probably be another year before his cycle is normalised.”

Molly put a hand on his arm as he began heading for the roof door. “You talk about it so clinically,” she said in a quiet but far from timid voice.

John pulled away. “Don’t, Molly.”

“It’s been eight months, John.”

“And you think I should just forgive him?” John glared at her. “Just like that?”

“He’s trying, John. He’s trying to make it up to you. He doesn’t know how. If you would just tell him-”

“There is no ‘making it up to me.’ What he did, how can I forgive that? What could he possibly do or say to make me forgive him?”

Molly bit her lip and looked away. “I don’t know.”

John sighed. “Because there isn’t anything.”

“You still love him, though.”

“Turns out, love isn’t everything.” He pushed the paper cup into her free hand and strode through the roof door.

 

_I should slap you. IA_

John ran his hand through his hair. He paused with his thumbs over the screen before typing a response. _Tell her I’m sorry. JW_

_Tell her yourself. Tomorrow. She doesn’t need to hear from you anymore today, thank you very much, doctor. IA_

John tossed his phone on the coffee table and sat back. How was he suddenly the villain in all this? He hadn’t meant to upset Molly, but she should’ve gotten the message by now that pressing him to take Sherlock back was a waste of both their times.

_She’s right, though. IA_

“Hell,” John growled before punching back his reply. _Don’t you start at me too. I’ve had enough from her and Mycroft both. JW_

_Maybe you should take the hint and listen to them. IA_

He couldn’t even collect his thoughts enough to respond. He turned his phone off and left it on the coffee table, stomping to the kitchen to make tea.

Not an hour later there was a ring at the front door. John groaned when he heard Greg’s voice greet Mrs. Hudson.

“Is his phone off? He’s upstairs. Don’t think he’s left all afternoon.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson.” 

John opened the door and walked over to sit heavily on the couch.

Greg tapped the door with his knuckles before stepping inside. He barely had a chance to open his mouth, let alone say anything.

“You too?”

“Huh?”

John rolled his eyes and leaned his arms on his thighs. “Mycroft and Molly have been at me for months, and seem to double their efforts when Sherlock’s at his mother’s. Irene started in today. So now Mycroft’s sent you in?”

Greg stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t know about Irene.”

“I’m sure Mycroft did.”

“Probably. Probably why he suggested I come check up on you out of the blue.” Greg nodded politely to the couch.

John scooted over reluctantly and motioned for him to sit. “If any of you think you’re going to guilt me into it or hope to wear me down enough-”

“I said I was here to check up on you. Not Sherlock. Not you-and-Sherlock. You.”

“Right.” John grimaced. “Well, aside from being incredibly annoyed with everyone, I’m fine. Great to see you, Greg. Have a nice night.”

Greg just bobbed his head and leaned back on the couch.

John sighed. “Beer?”

“That’d be great.” After John returned and Greg had taken a drink, he said, “So, eight months.”

“Eight months.”

“How’ve you two been? I mean, when he’s not, you know.”

“Going into unexpected heats and skipping town the second he does?” John raised a brow. “Fine, we’re fine.”

“Really?”

“You’ve seen us.”

Greg shook his head. “On cases. Working. I know both of you. There’s work mode and home mode. The insufferable know-it-all and the army captain. Or doctor, depending on the situation. But it’s business, and you both have masks for that.”

John took a long draught. “What do you think? He makes me a cuppa every morning, eats and sleeps on a nearly regular basis, won’t play the violin if I’m working or sleeping, doesn’t voice his deductions out loud unless we’re on a case, is nearly civil with clients.”

“The Holmes version of grovelling.”

“You’ve seen it, huh?”

“Myc’s made his mistakes.” Greg smirked. “Not that I haven’t, but you and I beg forgiveness in more traditional ways.”

John winced.

“What?”

“I’m so god damn sick of that word. That’s all everyone wants me to do: forgive him.”

“It’s that hard, isn’t it?” Greg wasn’t accusing him. He sounded truly sorry for John and his situation. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Exactly.” John put his bottle on the coffee table with a thunk. “No one can. They think I can just let it all go and take him back and live our lives like nothing happened. Like he didn’t destroy every ounce of trust I had in him. It’s so easy for them to say that. They didn’t have to forgive him. They knew. Mycroft, Molly, Irene. They all knew he was strutting about the globe for the three worst years of my life.”

“You know he couldn’t-”

“I know!” John grasped the sides of his head. “I know, I know he couldn’t tell me. That doesn’t make it easier. I’m just saying, they didn’t go through what I did. They didn’t spend three years thinking the only and last person they’d ever love was gone, only to find out three years later he’d made you watch his fake suicide.”

Greg’s hand settled on his shoulder. “You’re right. None of us knows, none of us can even imagine. It makes me sick to even think about what if it had been Myc instead. We’re not pretending to know, though.” He took his hand away and pushed John’s bottle back into his fingers.

John took a drink and sat back.

“I’ll tell you what I think, and Mycroft will probably want to kick me out of the house for a month for saying this.”

“Then I’m all ears.”

Greg rolled his bottle between his palms, took a drink, and set it on the coffee table. “I think there’s two choices for you, John. Either you take him back, or-”

John shot him a dangerous look.

“Or,” Greg emphasised, holding up his hands, “you leave.”

“What?” John sat up.

“The two of you living together like this,” he motioned around the flat, “it’s just going to wear you both down to nothing, with the rest of us watching from the sidelines unable to do anything. I’m not saying leave London, or pretend he doesn’t exist. But either you choose to take him back, or you cut the last bit of string between you two. Doing this? This is what’s going to kill you. Not in body, but in mind and heart. You’re sapping each other dry like this. It’s hurting everyone. And it’s going to hurt if you choose to walk out, but at least that pain will dull over time. And if it doesn’t? Well, I’ll make sure he doesn’t go anywhere and he’s here if you ever decide to come back.”

John stared at the mouth of his bottle as Greg’s words settled in his mind. He drained the glass and set it beside Greg’s. “You’re right. I can’t stay.”

“Oh yeah, definitely going to need a hotel for a month at least.” Greg couldn’t even manage a bitter smile, though. Instead, he went to get another pair of bottles.

 

John put all his energy into packing and making the necessary phone calls. He knew if he waited, he’d lose conviction. He had to do this while Sherlock was still gone.

Greg rang him up around noon and invited him to a cafe between Baker Street and the Met for lunch. It was good he had because John had forgotten to eat breakfast entirely.

“Did you tell him?” John said after they’d ordered.

“Yeah.”

“And? How’d he take it? Should I be lending you the upstairs bedroom in 221B?”

Greg shook his head. “He didn’t say anything. Just put his head in his hands. Didn’t come to bed, was off to work before I was up. Not that it’s anything new, but-”

“Under the circumstances.” John nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. God, I wish I was off duty. I could sure as hell use a drink right now.”

“Call me up when you’re off. I’ll get one with you before I leave.”

Greg stared at him. “That was fast.”

“Like a plaster. I’m going to Harry’s for a bit, then I’ll find someplace in town.” John frowned. “If you don’t think Mycroft will object, you still up for getting drinks now and then?”

“Sod it if he does object.”

John smiled. “Thanks.”

Greg shrugged. “It’s what he gets for having an unbreedable beta for his mate instead of some complacent omega.”

John snorted. “Like every omega is complacent.” His expression fell slowly. “Guess that was my mistake, going for one that was as bull-headed as any alpha.”

“John-” Greg was cut off by the waitress delivering their plates.

“Do me a favour.” John looked blankly at the salad in front of him.

“Sure.”

“Don’t let me ask about him. Unless something really, really wrong happens, don’t tell me anything.”

“Are you sure?”

John made eye contact and held it for a moment before nodding. “And tell Mycroft and Molly and Irene the same, if they’ll listen.”

“You should tell them.”

“Maybe.” He picked up his fork and pierced a clump of lettuce.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But wait...

John mailed a few boxes to Harry, put most of his things in storage, and left London with only his laptop and an overnight bag. It was well after supper when his train pulled into Ashurst. He took the bus into Lyndhurst and a cab to the Holmes’ estate.

Mrs. Holmes herself opened the door, the serving staff all having gone for the day. There was a brief moment when she saw John that she must have believed the best had happened at last for her youngest.

“I’ve moved out of Baker Street. I thought I’d at least say goodbye to him.”

The light died from the old woman’s face. She straightened up, nodded curtly, and allowed him entrance. “You can leave your things by the door. I don’t expect you’ll be staying long.”

“No.” John propped his bag and laptop in the corner.

“He’s upstairs.” Without another glance, she strode out of the front hall.

John had never been surprised to learn that the Holmes brothers came from old money, but he had never gotten used to being in this house. He squared his shoulders and made his way up the stairs.

The smell of Sherlock in heat had permeated the front door. He was glad he had popped a mild hormone suppressant before leaving London—something far less dangerous and benign for alphas, especially for short-term use—because even with it his skin was crawling. After all, it wasn’t just any omega in heat. He and Sherlock had been mates. They had bonded. His body would always react to Sherlock’s oestrus, no matter how long they were separated or how many suppressants he safely took. It was just a matter of keeping himself under control.

John knocked at Sherlock’s door. There was no answer, so he opened it slowly. If Sherlock was awake, he’d know it was him by scent alone.

“Sherlock?”

The lamp on the bedside table was on. Dressed in nothing but pants and a tee, a mound of blankets rumpled beside him, Sherlock was propped up against the headboard with a large book in his lap. More like an encyclopaedia. Actually, it might have been.

But he wasn’t reading. His hands were clenched into fists, white knuckles pressed against the open pages. He met John’s eyes in the dim light. “You’re leaving.”

“Yes.”

“Goodbye.”

“It’s for the best. I can’t forgive you, and pretending like we can just be friends, even flatmates, is naive and just hurting us and everyone we care about.”

“Of course.”

John’s hand clenched on the doorknob and released with a heavy breath. “Promise me something.”

“What?” Sherlock’s deadpan gaze didn’t waver.

“Don’t go doing something you wouldn’t do if I were still around.”

Sherlock quirked a brow.

That miniscule change in his expression sent annoyance and anger flaring up inside John. “Takes the good cases when Greg brings them to you. No drugs. Stay on the patches.”

“If you want me to live without you, John, then you should expect nothing more than how I lived without you before. As it is no longer your responsibility to look after or even know about my wellbeing, and I will not have anyone to hold myself accountable to, I no longer have any reason to follow such inane mandates.”

“Damn it, Sherlock! I’m talking about your life. Don’t go fuck up your life just because I’m not there.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You have no right to demand anything of me. Not anymore. Goodbye, Dr. Watson.”

“Sod it. You want to chuck your life away, fine.” John pivoted on his heel and slammed the door behind him. “Infuriating bastard,” he muttered to himself, stamping to the staircase.

He paused two steps down.

The second time he didn’t knock on Sherlock’s door. His mouth was already open to speak when he saw Sherlock standing up, digging through his suitcase on the bed.

He didn’t even look up at John. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock answered by way of producing a prescription bottle.

“You’re going back on them?”

“I see no reason to suffer through oestrus if I have no mate.” He dropped the bottle on the bed and his suitcase back to the floor.

“Long-term use can-”

“I’m aware, doctor.” Sherlock toed the suitcase under the bed. “What did you want? You were on your way out, I believe.”

John cleared his head with a brief shake. “I can’t decide if you’re incredibly selfish or just apathetic.”

“Neither.”

John gave him an incredulous look.

“I’m quite selfless actually. There have been few days since we first met where at least part of my actions, if not each of them, wasn't for your sake. Certainly none since I said yes.”

John crossed his arms. “None? Really?”

“None.”

“Because I always thought selfishness in a relationship was the one truly omega quality you consistently exhibited.”

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed. “On the contrary, I tend to practice very alpha-like behaviour in concern for and protectiveness of my mate.”

John stiffened. “I’ve got a long list of cases and experiments that beg to differ.”

“Simply because you do not observe-”

“Forget it.” John waved his hand. “I had something to say, and now I’ve lost it. Take the goddamn pills.”

“I won’t commit suicide, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

John went rigid and swallowed hard.

“I wouldn’t put that guilt on you.”

“Cheers,” he muttered.

“You should leave before you miss your train to Harry’s. And before your own suppressant starts wearing off.”

“Right.” He closed the door more gently this time.

Downstairs, Mrs. Holmes was waiting with a phone in hand. “I’ll call you a taxi, doctor.” She pressed the dial button and walked out.

John waited on the front stoop for the cab. He dug out the over-the-counter bottle of mild alpha suppressants and swallowed another dry.

His phone sounded as he was stuffing the bottle back into his bag. He expected a lot of possibilities. He half expected it to be Sherlock. While he might have expected a text from Molly, he couldn’t have expected—or quite understood—what she was getting at.

_He looks sad when he thinks you can’t see him._

John sighed. _I’ve seen him sad plenty of times. More than I’d like to think about, thanks._

_But do you know what that means, looking sad when you think the person you love can’t see you?_

_What are you trying to get at?_

_Have you ever looked sad when you thought he couldn’t see you?_

_It’s Sherlock Holmes. He sees everything._

_Exactly._

A cold lump slid from John’s throat and hit like lead in his gut. He left his things on the front stoop and slammed his fist on the front door.

“For heaven’s sake, John!”

He brushed past Mrs. Holmes and bolted up the stairs. He didn’t even realise he was shouting until he was halfway up. “Don’t take it! SHERLOCK, DON’T TAKE IT.”

Sherlock was stepping out of his room when John careened into him.

“Did you take it?” John panted. “Did you take it yet?”

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but n-”

John grabbed Sherlock’s face and reached up to crush their mouths together. “Yes,” he murmured against Sherlock’s lips. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

Sherlock, who had stood completely still and silent for the last thirty seconds, rested his hands on John’s hips and kissed him back. “I’m so sorry, John.”

“I know.” John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s neck. “I know. I forgive you.”

“Do you?” Sherlock pulled back and looked down at him. “If you don’t, I understand.”

“Yes. I do. I forgive you.” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and dragged his face down.

They stumbled back into Sherlock’s bedroom, John kicking it shut harder than necessary. He pushed Sherlock until his thighs hit the mattress, lips barely breaking away from lips.

“John,” Sherlock panted. “John, wait.”

Sheer incredulity flashed through John, but he stilled his hands and mouth and looked at Sherlock.

“I’m not in heat. My oestrus cycle ended approximately fourteen hours ago. I was going back to London tomorrow.”

John frowned. “So?”

“I don’t have any artificial lubricant.”

John groaned. “Fuck.” He pulled Sherlock’s shirt to his face. “You still smell fucking amazing.”

“I hadn’t bathed yet, and the staff waits until I’ve left to change the linen.”

“Well,” John sighed, leaning his head against Sherlock’s chest. “Nothing to be done about it I suppose.”

“I could still suck you off, if you’d like.”

A shiver ran down John’s spine and he grinned against the cotton tee. “Wouldn’t ask that of you, not right now.”

“You don’t have to ask it of me. I’m offering.” Sherlock lowered his mouth to John’s ear. “I like the taste of your cock.”

John’s breath caught and he pressed his hips into Sherlock’s. “Shouldn’t take long,” he breathed. “Not with this scent everywhere.” He inhaled deeply once more before shoving Sherlock back onto the bed. Sherlock scooted back while John dropped his trousers and pants and kicked his shoes off with them. He climbed onto the bed, straddling Sherlock’s lap.

“What made you come back?”

John frowned. “Now?”

“Inappropriate timing?”

“Bit. But if you want to talk about it now, we can.”

“It can wait. Besides, I might find it difficult to talk with my mouth full.” Sherlock wetted his lips and ran his fingers down the shaft of John’s prick. “You took a second suppressor?”

“Before I—well, figured things out. Sorry.”

“Not at all. It’s impressive you’re still almost fully erect.”

John grinned and buried his face in Sherlock’s hair. “It’s because you smell so fucking good, even fourteen hours after oestrus.”

Sherlock rolled them over and they readjusted themselves on the bed, mouths locked, tongues and teeth sliding together. Then Sherlock shimmied down John’s torso, running his nails down his sides until he reached his hips and gripped them. Sherlock lowered his mouth over John’s cock, making sweeps of the glans before wrapping his lips around the head and pushing down with a long, slow breath. He hollowed his cheeks, and John slammed his hands into Sherlock’s hair with a moan.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard during your next heat, you won’t be able to deduce what side of the bed you’re on in the morning.

Sherlock’s chuckle translated to a low, rumbling vibration around John.

In turn, John gasped and his hips bucked unexpectedly.

Sherlock pulled off to avoid being choked, but in the next moment he was sucking his way back down.

John hadn’t thought he was going to get off so fast with the suppressants in him, but it didn’t feel like nearly long enough before he was fisting Sherlock’s dark curls as the only warning he could manage.

Sherlock didn’t pull away, though. He timed his breathing with John’s orgasm and took every millilitre of come into his mouth, swallowing with John still inside.

John shuddered and whimpered as the last of the orgasm ebbed and flowed, and Sherlock at last came up for air.

Sherlock slinked back up John’s body and curled in at his side. John wrapped him in his arms and held him vicelike to him. Sherlock kissed his chin and then made his way to his mouth. “We’re going to have to rebuild your stamina if you’re going to keep that promise.”

“Piss off,” John giggled.

Sherlock nuzzled into his neck. “Will you tell me now?”

“Something Molly said,” John murmured.

“Ah, then it’s bound to be full of sentiment.”

“About being sad when you don’t think the person you love can see you.”

John expected some remark confirming the excessive sentimentality of Molly’s words, but instead Sherlock pressed more firmly against him, shutting his eyes. John could tell Sherlock was forcing himself to keep his breathing calm and even. He didn’t ask, didn’t comment. He just combed his fingers through Sherlock’s curls before gathering him up in both arms and—whether aloud or only in his thoughts, he couldn’t be sure—refusing to let go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The purely smutty conclusion!

Sherlock had been in a fit for weeks now. John had watched the agitation grow. First it was anticipation: Sherlock was certain his next oestrus was bound to hit by the five-month mark. Now that they had seen six come and go, he was crawling the walls. And he refused to leave the flat, lest is come at any moment. John would roll his eyes at that, but part of him thought that might not be such a bad idea.

And in the end, it wasn’t.

Three hours after turning down a case Sherlock would usually have killed to have, he was shouting for John.

Not that John needed it. He’d been fairly on edge too, and the first waft of oestrus brought him hurtling from the sitting room to the bedroom. Sherlock was already half stripped, and John was quickly following suit.

Then they had their hands all over each other, unable to satisfy themselves with every possible skin-on-skin contact. They collapsed on the bed, pressing their bodies as flush as they could get them, fingers reaching for touch, tongues for taste. Two of Sherlock’s fingers were already wet from checking to make sure he really was in heat before John had even made it to the room.

“I can’t stop leaking,” Sherlock said through shuddering breaths. “Bed’s already a mess.”

“Don’t—” John nipped Sherlock’s chin and jaw “—fucking—care.” He left bite marks down Sherlock’s neck and across his shoulder. “How do you want to-”

He couldn’t finish his question before Sherlock was squirming under John and rolling onto his stomach, thrusting his hips back and his arse up. He really was leaking everywhere, more than John could remember him doing in the past.

For a moment, John forgot to breathe.

And then Sherlock let out a preposterous moan.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and bit down on his arse.

The half-faked moan turned entirely honest and much louder.

John snatched up one of the condoms Sherlock had kept hopefully on their nightstands for the last four months. His hands felt thick and clumsy has he worked it on, hardly able to tear his eyes from the sight in front of him.

“John,” Sherlock groaned. “John!”

“I know, love. I know.” John pressed two fingers against the entrance, making sure the muscles had loosened enough.

“John!” Sherlock snapped, half-desperate and half-annoyed.

He slicked himself up with the lubricant now covering his fingers and pushed into Sherlock with ease.

They shuddered and moaned in tandem, though Sherlock’s sounded more like a whimper. “Please, John. John, I need-”

“I know, love. I’m going to take care of you.” John bent over Sherlock and kissed the back of his neck. “I’m always going to take care of you.”

He rolled his hips into Sherlock, who definitely whimpered then. Sherlock pressed his forehead into the mattress and fisted the sheets. He couldn’t do more than lay there. He’d never been so inert during sex, not even with his normal heats.

Well, it was a good thing this wasn’t anything new between them. John had seen Sherlock through a few heats already. It’d been a while, but he supposed he still knew what Sherlock needed to get past this first bout.

He didn’t waste time building a rhythm. He went hard and fast, ramming into Sherlock over and over, urged on by the growing number and volume of noises coming from Sherlock’s mouth, no matter how muffled by the bed sheets. At some point his knees collapsed, and John continued to pound him into the mattress.

But John felt his own climax approaching, and Sherlock still felt far from his own. He paused, much to both their discomforts, and pulled Sherlock up off the bed. Kneeling upright, John pulled Sherlock’s weight against him. He wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s stomach, and with his free hand he took hold of Sherlock’s prick. It was sizeable for an omega, nearly the size one might expect on a beta.

John resumed his thrusts as best he could in the new position, this time timing it with pulls on Sherlock’s cock.

“I’m coming,” he panted, still forcing thrust after thrust. “I’m coming.”

He lost the ability to hold them up, and they fell forward as he managed one more slam into Sherlock before coming hard.

Sherlock cried out under him, internal vagina and arse both clenching around John, his own prick convulsing in John’s hand. John bit Sherlock’s back as his body continued to shake through both their orgasms.

After a very long moment of catching their breath, Sherlock muttered, “I still know what side of the bed I’m on.”

John laughed. He pulled out and rolled off the condom, tossing it in the rubbish bin by the bed. “I’ll have to try harder next round.”

“Please do,” Sherlock murmured lazily, still face-down against the mattress.


End file.
